Page 17 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)

MARCUS

“He’s dying, sir.”

“Keep him alive! We’re almost to Aracam!”

“He’s had six seizures in as many hours. He might still be breathing, but he’s never going to wake up, sir. His brain is pulp.”

“Fuck! Go, then! And consider yourself demoted, you incompetent sack of shit!”

Marcus could hear them, but he could not move. Could not open his eyes. Could not speak.

There was nothing but sound and pain.

“Shit!”

“Might I make a suggestion, young master?”

“Unless it’s a way to keep him alive to deliver to Felix, I don’t want to hear it, Zaide.”

“It is, young master. We have medicines. Your healer… surgeon , yes? He would not take my advice, but desperate times call for desperate measures, would you not say?”

“Do it. I don’t care what it is—do it. If it works, I’ll have that useless shit flogged for not listening before.”

Through the pain, Marcus felt hands grasping him. Someone forced his mouth open and pouring something down his throat, the noise of Titus cursing like knives in his skull, but then even pain slipped away as his mind fell away into nothingness.

It was akin to the feel of a xenthier path, except instead of brilliant white, all was black.

An endless, ceaseless void and Marcus silently screamed, because to remain like this would be the greatest torment ever devised.

An endless nightmare from which there would be no escape, and he screamed and screamed and—

Opened his eyes.

“See, young master,” the old Gamdeshian crooned even as the excruciating pain in Marcus’s skull began to ease, his vision clearing to reveal the ancient man leaning over him, hands cupping Marcus’s cheeks. “Your Eastern healers know nothing.”

“Watch your tongue, Zaide, for such slander against the Empire will see it cut out.” Titus shouldered Zaide out of the way and leaned over Marcus to look him in the eye. “Though for these results, I will forgive it.”

“You are benevolent, young master.”

Titus ignored the old man, catching his balance against the side of the rocking wagon as it bounced over a rut. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Marcus. Just in time to return you to your men.”

Marcus coughed, his mouth tasting foul and every part of him aching, but he could move and see and—“This isn’t going to work, Titus.”

The younger legatus roughly patted Marcus’s cheek. “You dug this hole yourself, sir. But truly, I do wish you the best. Zaide, get him up and put a hood on him. I want Felix to have the grand reveal.”

Climbing to his feet, Titus jumped out of the wagon. “Get this thing moving faster,” he said. “He’s awake but I don’t know for how long.”

Marcus couldn’t help but wonder the same thing. For while the pain was diminished, his head still throbbed, and nausea still pooled in his stomach. Realizing the Gamdeshian had a firm grip on his wrist, he jerked free of the man.

Zaide only grinned at him, white teeth gleaming. “You will live long enough to die, legatus.”

Before Marcus could answer, the Gamdeshian pulled a hood over his head.

Think.

He had no idea what the man had given him to bring him back to consciousness, likely some stimulant he’d pay for later, but this might be the only moment he had with a relatively clear head to come up with a way through this.

A way to explain to Felix and the Thirty-Seventh what had happened before they beat him to a pulp for desertion.

While there had most certainly been witnesses to his arrival through the xenthier, Titus clearly had them under strict orders to keep their mouths shut.

His armor was gone. As were his weapons, gold, and the letter Wex had written him with proof he’d been in Celendrial.

Eventually, path-hunters would come, but by then, it would be far, far too late.

Think.

But he could not focus as he heard familiar shouts of codes and orders, the wagon slowing its pace.

Though the sack obscured his vision, Marcus didn’t need his eyes to know they’d entered a legion camp.

Not with the familiar smell of smoke and sweat and shit.

The bark of centurions giving orders. The laughter of men around fires.

The ever-present tension of an army ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

And a certain quality to the whole mix of it all that told him this was the Thirty-Seventh’s camp.

The wagon stopped moving, and rough hands pulled him out. Marcus landed in a heap on the ground, then was dragged to his feet, his knees struggling to support him. The same hands shoved him into a walk, and his head swam with dizziness.

How long did he have until Zaide’s medicines wore off? How long until the endless darkness returned?

“Find Felix,” Titus called from behind him, and hands pulled Marcus to a halt. “The Forty-First has a gift for the Thirty-Seventh, and I think it best that he be the one to unwrap it.”

Sickness twisted Marcus’s gut, because his history with Felix was more likely to be his damnation than his salvation. Echoes of their last conversation filled his head, drowning out the curious murmurs of the legionnaires watching on.

Since we’ve been children, I’ve protected you, Marcus. Lied and deceived and murdered to keep you alive and to achieve your ends. And for what? What do you give me in return?

Apparently not the one thing that you want.

Hateful words cast when he’d believed that it was Felix who’d betrayed him, Felix who’d given over Teriana to Ashok, Felix who’d put the Thirty-Seventh at risk by conspiring with the enemy.

But it hadn’t been Felix, it had been Cassius’s piece-of shit-son, Titus, and anger chased away Marcus’s fear. Every part of him wanted to hurl accusations at Titus, but that was coin one could only spend once, and Marcus had played the game too long to waste it now.

Footsteps approached, the distinct purposeful rhythm a punch to the stomach because he’d know Felix’s stride anywhere.

“Why are you here, sir?” Felix asked. Marcus clenched his teeth, the sound of his friend’s voice after all this time threatening to shatter his composure. “I was under the impression you were focused on dealing with the inlanders. My last report is that they attacked your camp.”

“It was nothing more than rattling of spears and banging of drums,” Titus replied. “Given the importance of the prisoner, I thought it a better use of my time to deliver him to the Thirty-Seventh myself.”

Silence stretched, and Marcus felt Felix’s eyes on him, heard the slight intake of breath as his friend realized his identity.

Marcus clenched his teeth, waiting for the distinct snick of steel as a gladius was drawn, but instead, Felix said, “You have our gratitude, sir. As this is Thirty-Seventh business, we will take him from here.” A hesitation, then, “Bring him to command.”

Relief flooded Marcus’s veins. Felix was going to give him a chance to speak, to explain himself, to—

“I’d suggest that the prison is a more appropriate destination,” Titus said. Catching hold of the hood concealing Marcus’s face, Titus wrenched it away, then kicked Marcus in the spine.

He sprawled at Felix’s feet, tasting mud and worse.

Yet it was tempting to remain in that position, for the alternative was to look up and face the consequences of all that he had said.

All that he had done. While he was no deserter, neither was Marcus innocent, and even if he made it through this alive, there would be a reckoning.

Get up, he ordered himself, ignoring the pain and nausea and fear that demanded otherwise. Face this on your feet.

It was awkward with his arms bound, but Marcus got his knees beneath him.

Then his feet. Mud dripped down his face as he straightened, the rising tide of angry voices making his pulse roar as his men recognized him.

Legionnaires he’d led most of his life bent to pick up rocks, their faces flushed with fury, and he couldn’t blame them.

It had been he who’d brought them to this place, whom they’d followed without question, and they all believed he’d abandoned them for a girl.

It was the worst form of betrayal, and the only thing standing between him and being beaten to death by his own men was the friend he’d all but stabbed in the heart.

He met Felix’s gaze, then immediately wished he hadn’t, for his friend’s blue eyes blazed with an awful mix of fury, shock, and grief that was barely kept in check.

Men pressed closer all around them, the air tasting like violence, and Marcus knew that Felix wanted to unleash them.

Wanted to pick up a rock and strike the first blow.

The final blow. Anything to find respite from the hurt Marcus had caused him.

“He was found in civilian clothes near our camp.” Titus’s voice was measured, but his glee shone as bright as his polished armor.

Titus would relish watching the Thirty-Seventh slaughter him, because it would clear a path to uncontested power.

“He was injured when we found him. Black eye, bruised ribs. It seems Teriana grew tired of him and gave him a beating. He denies desertion and has wild claims about his whereabouts, but we have been unable to confirm his words. I suggest you give him the benefit of explaining himself before you take action.”

The clever bastard was doing his level best to ensure he couldn’t be blamed for any of what came next.

The din of shouts calling for his death grew. “Fucking traitor!” someone screamed, and Marcus flinched as a rock glanced off his arm. Then another hit his shoulder, sending a spike of pain lancing down his fingertips.

But he kept his eyes fixed on Felix’s. “I didn’t desert,” he said. “You can hear me out or kill me and hear the same story from the path-hunters who will soon arrive. Your choice.”

“No one knows better than me how easily you lie, Marcus.” The muscles in Felix’s jaw stood out in stark relief. “That the same story comes from someone else does not make it the truth. It only means you’ve manipulated them into believing it so.”